


Privilege of Rank

by Anamosa



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Just Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 19:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anamosa/pseuds/Anamosa
Summary: Bush asks Styles for assistance.Originally published circa 2003.





	

It was easy enough to order Styles on pretense of wanting assistance with something unnamed; when an order was given, it was followed without question (in theory anyway). Styles had come along willingly, glad to be away from scum like Randall who would sink a knife into your back soon as it was turned. In an unused dogbox cabin, Bush closed the door and said, "You are likely wondering why we're here." 

Styles nodded, looking slightly abashed. "Yes, sir." 

Bush began, in a calm, bland tone, as if he were asking Styles to help him move the wardroom table, "I would believe, as men, we both have certain... needs that plague us aboard ship, far away from land. Perhaps together we could meet these needs I speak of, since there are no likely women about." Styles gaped at him and Bush continued. "If this idea does not appeal to you, do say so and we won't speak of this again." As far as he knew, an open-ended proposition was not a punishable offense. 

Styles said, "Oh, it 'peals to me, all right," his leering grin slightly lopsided by the healing cut on his lip. He had not seen a woman nor had a woman in so long. Usually he could find a willing seaman or even a midshipman aboard but with Randall, Hobbs and other toadies about, he could not put himself or anyone else in danger of discovery or blackmail. There were some likely men here but he could not even think to bring the matter up with them here, for they could all be easily agents of Randall. Trust no one, except for those he knew, like Matthews. Or Hornblower and Kennedy, though even thinking of fucking an officer was out of the question. 

Not now. He tossed aside any misgivings he may have had about Bush. He was an officer but there was something in there that showed he did not live soft growing up. He was wiry from work, though his face was not weathered. His accent was slightly coarser than the other three lieutenants. However, Styles did not consciously think of speech patterns or appearance other than the huskily whispered invitation and the fact that Bush was indeed a fine figure of a man did to his mind and his yard. 

"As it does me, Styles. You've not been poxed, have you?" Bush posed quietly, as if he was asking who had the forenoon watch. 

"No, sir!" Styles answered, again a little shocked that an officer would ask about these things. "I've used the cundum with the ladies. I-- I no longer have one with me, if that's what you wanted-- but there's other things we can--?" He took a deep breath and steadied himself and asked without blinking, "What about you, sir, are ye poxy?" 

Bush didn't blink, nor did he curl his upper lip in annoyance or distaste. He smiled with his lips closed, as if self-conscious about his teeth. "No, Styles, I'm not. The mercury cure is something I've managed to avoid. The local midwife claimed to cure pox with moldy bread, she'd have people eat it. I imagine it worked but I can't think of anything worse." 

Styles made a face. "Moldy bread? Perhaps with a little butter or jam, it'd go down easier than what Clive has in 'is 'pothecary." 

"Perhaps. No more talk of pox or mold." Bush winked and reached up, taking hold of Styles' face in his long hands. Styles grunted in shock as lips met his, kissing one corner of his mouth, gently, carefully, avoiding the cut. Bush drew back and remarked, "You cleaned your teeth-- just for me. Glad of it." He cut off any reply Styles might have made with his lips. Bush's tongue poked in softly and Styles wrapped his arms around Bush, kissing him back a little roughly, jaw stubble rasping. Bush's skin quickened and tingled at the scrape of beard stubble, nearly causing him to forget to secure the door. As well as attending to his teeth, Styles had washed very recently, in fact he smelled of soap still. 

One large hand gripped Bush's arse, pulling him closer. Styles' prick pushed at Bush's belly through layers of clothing and Bush rubbed against it, his own a belaying pin. He wondered if Styles was going to take down his breeches and have him spreadeagled against the bulkhead, picking up splinters from the planking in his palms and forehead. Not that he was averse to the idea but explaining how he came to acquire them to Dr. Clive would take some invention. 

"So... shall we get undressed now? Or go at this fully clothed?" Bush asked, unbuttoning Styles' half-unbuttoned, tar-stained striped waistcoat. "I'd much prefer to be naked myself," he purred, running one hand up Styles' stomach and using the other to shuck off the waistcoat. 

"If it's all the same t'you, sir, I'd rather have them off meself," Styles affirmed, shakily trying to unbutton Bush's waistcoat. It didn't take long before uniforms were scattered and both men stood naked. Styles made a grab for Bush and found himself clutching air. He looked left and right, then saw Bush lying on his back on a cot, hands gripping the lines, legs spread. Styles cocked his head and studied the lithe, wiry form sprawled below him. 

"Is there something wrong, Styles?" Bush wondered, tone bland but eyes twinkling. 

"No sir, nothing at all." Styles was a little mystified, he was used to dropping his trousers, doing it quickly, then pulling up his trousers and leaving quickly. He had not had anyone in a bed in some months, and this, while not ideal, was far more private than most accommodations on shore he could afford. And Bush was far handsomer than anyone he had in many years, man or woman. He wondered if he was dreaming, especially when Bush held out a jar containing a white salve and said: 

"Then fuck me, Styles. Fuck me." 

Styles grinned, ignoring the cut pulling at his lip. "Aye, sir!" He took hold of Bush's legs and eased him so he was lying a bit crosswise on the cot. He helped himself to a liberal dab of this bland salve, which was white and had no discernible scent, and greased his cock with it, feeling Bush's large pale eyes upon him. He allowed himself a few pulls, noting that Bush's eyes lit at the sight of him stroking himself. He then inserted two greased fingers inside Bush's arse. 

"Fuck me...fuck me hard..." Bush growled, pitching a little at the intrusion. He always had a soft spot somewhere in his anatomy for burly sailors and landsmen with large hands, whose embraces engulfed his slight body, whose kisses (if any) would be rough. Styles, who at a good four or five inches taller and maybe even four stone heavier, fitted that description nicely. The best thing about him was his willingness, nay, eagerness to go straight at it. 

Keeping one foot on the deck, Styles raised Bush's legs and spread them, then easily slid inside, gasping a little when Bush's insides closed around him. He thrust slowly at first, for he thought he would hurt the slightly built Bush (whose arse was quite tight) if he moved too fast or too hard. Lithe legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him in further, the hair on them raising a shiver with each rasp. He bent close, thrusting hard, their ragged breathing and Bush's growls and grunts sounding too loud in the tiny cabin. 

Bush met each thrust, attempting to pull Styles and his cock even further inside himself. If he didn't watch himself, he would come and it would be over far too soon. He was about to think of dull or repulsive things to slow himself down but the hair on Styles' chest rasping pleasantly against him and the hard organ stabbing in him knocked him off any path of thought. He tangled his hands in Styles' long curls, ran his hands down the broad back and up again to strong arms, then down his back again, reaching for his arse, and up again. The swinging cot assisted Bush's counterthrusts and he tossed his head back, his hips involuntarily twitching. It would be soon-- 

A dull thump and a grunt of pain from Bush stopped Styles short. Bush's prick went soft and retreated for safety inside its foreskin. His face briefly creased in pain and annoyance. "Damn," he muttered softly, rubbing the rear crown of his head where it struck the bulkhead. 

"Are ye all right, sir?" Styles asked. "Was I too rough?" He ran his fingers through the light brown curls, checking for any bump or cut on the scalp, then looked at the planking and japed, "Ye just opened a new gun port, sir. Don't know if the Captain'll appreciate that, but we'll be the first seventy-five--" 

"Styles, shut it," Bush grunted. He reached down and pulled at his limp cock. "Damn." 

"Oh, don't worry about that, sir. One of us is still able." Styles grinned, shifting his hips. 

Bush gasped when that spot inside him was touched. He sobered himself with some difficulty. "Then we'd best continue this on the deck." 

"I'm all for that too, sir. Here, hang onto me." Styles crouched and worked his hands under Bush's shoulders and Bush wrapped his legs around his waist tighter. Styles helped him to a semi-sitting position and stood up slowly, easily lifting Bush with him, whose arms were twined around his neck and shoulders. Bush wanted to stay like this, impaled and held fast, nibbling Styles' neck, inhaling his scent, sharing long, hard, rough kisses. He ground his returning erection against Styles' belly. Styles pulled him closer and moved two steps to the center of the cabin, then turned slowly, again, a little faster until Bush planted one foot on the deck planking. 

"Styles!" He'd had enough of spinning as quickly as it started. _What the devil did he do that for?_ Blue eyes met greenish ones and a cheeky grin. 

"Sorry, sir," Styles said yet again, still grinning. He crouched, then knelt, carefully lowering his partner to the deck on his back, still managing to keep them coupled. "Comfortable, Mr. Bush?" 

"Yes, I am, Styles, thank you." Bush closed his eyes. Without warning, Styles found himself rolled onto his back, Bush pinning him, riding him, sucking and nipping the band of muscle and tendon joining neck and shoulder. Styles nearly shouted aloud but instead, rolled them both over so Bush was on his back. 

"I really, really like you this way, sir," Styles growled, rolling them both around the cabin as much as space would permit. Styles rolled them into a corner and found himself on top once again. He stopped for the moment, allowing the both of them a rest before going on. He rested his head on Bush's shoulder, relaxing into what were now gentle caresses to his hair, face, neck and back, and waited for Bush to give some signal he was ready to begin once more. 

Bush pushed against the rough planking and against the body crushing him with its weight. He'd had enough of slowing down, of waiting. Styles fucked him hard, nearly pulling out and shoving it back in hard. Bush merely clung to him tighter, growling, "Yes. Harder. _Harder_ , damn you, Styles, _harder_ \--" until speech tumbled into incoherence. Styles, used to keeping as quiet as possible belowdecks, hoped the growls, grunts and moans Bush made would not bring someone running. The last thing they needed was someone checking if penetration and emission had taken place in order to gather evidence for courtmartial. 

Styles easily lost that thought as Bush arched under him, fastening his teeth on the pad of muscle above Styles' collarbone. Gasping at the pinch of teeth, Styles came, bucking unevenly and sagging against Bush, who quickly followed with a stifled cry, a shudder, and two jets of semen coating their bellies. 

Styles attempted to get up, but Bush kept him there with one leg still hooked around his waist, wanting to hang on to him until the aftershocks faded. Bush noted a pattern of scarring on the left side of his face, a slight puckering amid the pockmarks and old scars from pimples and gunpowder. He touched it gently, thinking perhaps he had been burned at one time, at sea or maybe even as a child. It looked old. He knew so little about the men, especially those in Hornblower's division, and he wondered, but he could not bring himself to ask. As he hoped Styles would not ask about the scar at his throat, old and fine but visible now that his stock was gone. 

Styles in turn wondered who had attempted to cut Bush's throat. Perhaps it was a Frog sticker. He thought no more of it and extricated himself from Bush. He nearly kicked over a bucket of sea water, near which were some rags. Obviously Bush had brought those things and set them here. He smiled at that, and wondered why Bush wouldn't let go of him, why he looked at him as if something was wrong. He hoped nothing was wrong and sponged Bush's face off before cleaning their spend from him. 

"That feels good, Styles, but is hardly necessary. I can take care of myself." Bush took the rag from him and they set about cleaning themselves. Styles muttered about the grit they'd picked up on their skin from the deck planking, that would be something he and Matthews would have to see too, getting this crew of louts into shape. Once back in uniform, Bush reached up, took Styles' face in his hands and kissed him again. "Thank you for this, you are quite the tiger." 

"Perhaps we can do this again sometime, sir." 

"I imagine we could, Styles. I would like that." 

\- The End -


End file.
